


Closer

by eternallygapingmaw



Category: Indian Summers (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Implied Relationships, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternallygapingmaw/pseuds/eternallygapingmaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Gratuitous smut written for one of the world's smallest fandoms (S01), originally posted under another name.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Gratuitous smut written for one of the world's smallest fandoms (S01), originally posted under another name.

That morning, Ralph takes breakfast in his rooms, alone.

Afterwards, he goes out onto the veranda. The air is damp and close; thunder rumbles distantly across the valley. Eugene is sitting at a table under a parasol, reading a book and drinking tea. He takes occasional, distracted bites from a slice of toast, placing the toast back on its plate between each mouthful. He does not look up as Ralph approaches, but Ralph notes the tiny movement as his shoulders stiffen and then relax again. How carefully he holds himself in check, this brittle, ascetic man with his neatly-clipped moustache: even the frills of red carnation in his buttonhole look as if they have been goffered and starched.

This version of Eugene Mathers is the only one that Ralph has ever known, and yet, somewhere beneath the rigid carapace lies Madeleine’s beloved brother, her own boy Gene, who likes movie theatres and dancing barefoot. Gene, who calls his sister _baby_ and has an excellent singing voice - at least, according to Madeleine. Ralph wonders why she refuses to acknowledge the damage that has been wreaked upon Eugene since his arrival in India two years ago. Ralph knows all about the accident, and, of course, the more recent bouts of malaria; a legacy of Eugene's spell in Delhi, he supposes, seeing as Simla is too far north for the rotten disease to take hold, thank God. Cynthia has told him that Eugene has been suffering terribly of late. Whatever else has happened he can only guess at; he is only sure there must be _something_. He is sure that he has never heard Eugene sing.

Ralph pulls out a chair, and manners dictate that Eugene cannot continue to pretend not to have seen him. He shuts his book and gives Ralph a cool, closed-mouth smile. “She’s not here, you know.”

“I know.” A servant appears with a silver teapot on a wheeled tray. Eugene nods for his teacup to be refilled, but Ralph waves the man away. “She’s gone to the school. With Alice.”

Ralph thinks that it must have cost Eugene dearly to lose his temper as he did the day before. Still, he cannot blame Eugene for being angry: if pressed, he would admit that his behaviour has been far from discreet. He is less inclined to admit to exactly how it has made him feel, fucking Madeleine behind a succession of unlocked doors, knowing that Eugene could - and would - walk in any minute. He sees the reciprocal of that feeling in the hunch of Eugene’s shoulders, the tight press of his lips. As for Madeleine, he cannot believe that she has any inkling of this: she is just eager to please in a way that borders on desperation, in a way that as much as it pleases him now is almost certain to become tiresome before too long.

“Eugene, I - ” Ralph reaches out a hand and touches Eugene’s cheek. He is not even sure himself whether the gesture is merely intended as conciliatory. He cannot guess how Eugene will react, whether he will snap or scoff or simply jerk himself away, out of reach. But Eugene does none of these things. Instead, he sighs and turns his head into the touch, and raises his own hand to close his fingers around Ralph’s wrist.

“Yes,” says Eugene. He sounds very tired. He brings their hands down together onto the table. Ralph stares at his own hand where it lies palm-up upon the white linen amongst the chinaware and cutlery, the fingers relaxed and curled: it feels like something that does not belong to him. Eugene loosens his grip and Ralph senses that the strange intimacy of the moment is beginning to fade, but Eugene strokes a quick, cool fingertip along Ralph’s lifeline before moving his hand away, back to his cup of tea. The light is shining off the lenses of his spectacles and his expression is impossible to read. The teacup rattles against the saucer as he lifts it to his lips.

“Close, isn’t it?” Ralph’s own mouth feels dry but he has no desire to linger here. He looks away, runs a finger around the inside of his collar. “I think I’ll go back inside. This weather.” He swallows. “Maybe I’ll go upstairs. Take a nap.”

Eugene settles his teacup carefully into its saucer. He runs his thumbnail along the pages of his book, into the tiny depression where the ribbon lies. “Good idea,” he says.

***

The room is dim and cool, the shutters drawn against the threat of rain. Ralph kicks off his shoes and stretches out on the bed, folding his arms behind his head. There is very little noise, just the susurrations of the fan revolving slowly above his head and the faint sound of voices from the gardens below, servants and groundsmen going about their business. He is beginning to drift off to sleep when he hears the drag of Eugene’s footsteps on the stairs, the knock of his cane against the wooden treads. Ralph listens to the footsteps as they pass along the landing, moving closer and closer to his door. Then, silence. Ralph strains every fibre of his being as he listens for the slightest sound; he fancies that he can almost hear Eugene breathing, the tick of his heart. Outside the door, a shuffle followed by a smothered cough. Perhaps Eugene has already made up his mind to turn and walk away, back to his tea and his book.

“Eugene,” says Ralph. His voice sounds obscenely loud.

There is no reply. Ralph holds his breath, but the handle of the door begins to turn. In the widening rectangle of light he sees the familiar silhouette of tortoiseshell-framed spectacles and sharp nose above a moustachioed upper lip.

Eugene steps just inside the room and closes the door behind him. He is holding his book under one arm. “You’re not asleep,” he says. His tone is accusatory.

“No,” says Ralph. He wants to laugh - really, the man is impossible - but instead he rolls up onto one elbow and pats the counterpane. “Sit down, won’t you?”

Eugene seems to consider this offer for a moment, then nods and limps across the carpet. When he reaches the bed he pivots into a quarter-turn and begins to lower himself awkwardly, wincing. Ralph moves to help, reaching out to take hold of his arm, but Eugene shrugs him off. He sets down the book and perches himself on the edge of the bed with his feet planted wide apart, his hands clasped over the top of his cane.

“Don’t _pity_ me, Ralph,” says Eugene. He rests his forehead against his hands and sighs. “I can’t bear it.”

“God. Is that what you think?” Ralph harrumphs, flings himself back down on the bed. “I don’t pity you. Most of the time I don’t even like you.”

Eugene snickers. Ralph closes his eyes. “I think you’re a snake, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

The bed dips and creaks. Ralph opens his eyes again. Eugene is peering down at him, looking inquisitive and faintly amused. Ralph hooks a hand around the back of his neck and hauls him in, drawing him close before rolling them both over so that Eugene lies half-pinned beneath his body. Eugene’s cane clatters to the floor; a moment later, it is followed by his book, sliding off the counterpane with a dull thump.

Ralph would never have expected passion from Eugene, and in this he is not disappointed. Kissing Eugene is like kissing someone who has read about the act in a book and has decided - much against his better judgement - to turn theory into practice. Ralph cannot tell whether or not this artlessness is deliberate; either way, it is maddening. But even though the encounter has the feel of an obscure challenge - in which he has been tasked to break down Eugene’s cleverly-constructed facade to reveal the man beneath - Eugene is warm and unresisting in his arms. Ralph feels his cock hardening in predictable fashion. He carefully takes hold of Eugene’s spectacles and starts to slide them down his nose. Eugene stops him.

“No need,” he says. “I suspect this is going to be a little less - ah - _athletic_ than what you’re used to.”

His tone is light, but there is no mistaking the insinuation that lurks behind his words. “I want to see your eyes,” mutters Ralph, although right now he is finding it hard to meet Eugene’s inscrutable green gaze.

“Well I want to see _you_ ,” says Eugene, and his smile has teeth in it. His long fingers pluck at the hem of Ralph’s waistcoat. “Take it off.”

Ralph rises up to his knees and strips off his waistcoat. Eugene smooths his hands along his thighs. As Ralph unbuttons his shirt, Eugene’s hands move higher, his fingers carding through the dark hair on Ralph’s chest. His touch is calculating, exploratory. Emboldened by this frank assessment, Ralph unbuttons his flies and pulls out his cock, stiff and heavy against his palm. Eugene regards it thoughtfully. Ralph bites his lip and cants his hips forward, pushing his cock through the tight tunnel of his fingers.

“You want me,” says Eugene. His voice is flat, without inflection; he might as well be remarking upon the weather.

“Yes,” says Ralph, because to pretend otherwise is just pointless prevarication, when it is suddenly imperative that they both rid themselves of their clothing as soon as possible.

Laid out naked against the counterpane, Eugene is pale as a plant starved of light. He is more wiry than Ralph had anticipated, but the asymmetry of his limbs illustrates how accident and illness have remodelled the architecture of his body. Ralph draws a teasing finger down Eugene’s flank for the pleasure of seeing the muscles bunch and twitch under the skin. He is gratified to see that Eugene’s cock is fully erect, straining up against his belly. Ralph leans forward and licks slowly along the length of it, lapping at the head until he tastes salt there. Eugene shivers and blinks rapidly for a moment, but says nothing.

“Turn over,” says Ralph, and he urges Eugene onto his front. Eugene’s expression is wary but he positions himself as directed, tugging a pillow under his folded arms. Ralph skims his hands across Eugene’s back, earning a murmur of approval, then begins to place kisses along the length of Eugene’s spine. As he moves lower, Eugene stirs anxiously and lifts his head to look over his shoulder.

“What,” he says, “are you doing?”

Ralph huffs a laugh against Eugene’s sacrum. “Seeing as you’re so fucking clever,” he says, “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Screw you, Whelan,” breathes Eugene. His cheeks are flushed.

Ralph shrugs, parts Eugene’s buttocks with his thumbs and dips his head. Eugene makes a choked, startled noise at the first touch of Ralph’s tongue against his hole. Ralph applies himself diligently to the task, alternating long, lewd licks with gentle probing. The sensation of Eugene’s body opening up under his ministrations is impossibly intimate; Ralph grinds his cock against the bed.

“Stop,” hisses Eugene.

Ralph ignores him, pushes his tongue as deep as he can. Eugene whines and thumps the mattress with a clenched fist, then tries ineffectually to worm that same hand beneath himself. Ralph holds him down with his forearm across his lower back, lapping avidly at the tensing muscle, until Eugene’s breath stutters and his reserve finally cracks. “Oh,” he says, “oh Ralph, oh God - please - ”

Ralph surges upwards to mouth at the nape of Eugene’s neck. He grabs Eugene’s hip and hauls him over onto his back, so he can get a hand around his prick. Eugene stiffens and gasps and then he is coming, bucking into Ralph’s fist.

Ralph can feel the hot wet pulses echoed in the pulse of his own cock. He pulls at Eugene's prick until he makes a pained noise and flinches away, then he scrambles to straddle Eugene’s hips and tugs jerkily at himself, without finesse, a single-minded race to the finish. Eugene’s fingers play feather-light over his knuckles, his balls, teasing the sleek head of his cock. After only a few strokes Ralph is doubled over, teeth bared in a silent snarl, striping the shallow concavity of Eugene’s belly with his semen.

For a moment, all he can do is slump forward, panting, his eyes squeezed shut. When he regains something of his composure it is to see Eugene dragging his fingers through the mess, painting lazy circles towards his chest. Meeting Ralph’s gaze, he offers up his hand. Ralph does not hesitate to lick and nip at Eugene’s fingertips, hearing the catch of his breath. Then he leans back in and kisses Eugene on the lips, sliding his hands into his hair.

The kiss is deep and languorous; Eugene’s tongue moves against his own like something awakened. Ralph can taste them both in his mouth. _Yes_ , he thinks, _yes_. He would have Eugene again if he could, only this time he would bugger him, bend him over the bed and give it to him fast and hard until he cried out from it. The thought makes his cock twitch anew. They kiss until Eugene strains against him, indicating wordlessly that his leg is beginning to hurt.

Reluctantly, Ralph breaks the kiss and sits up. He rummages around in the tangle of their discarded clothing, looking for his handkerchief. He wipes himself down first and then offers the handkerchief to Eugene, who dabs at his belly with a faint frown of distaste before tossing the soiled scrap of cloth aside.

They settle down on the bed, face-to-face, Eugene with his head pillowed in the crook of his elbow. Ralph touches his thumb to Eugene’s cheekbone, traces the line of his jaw. Whilst he recognises that these feelings of post-coital possessiveness will fade soon enough, he thinks that he will be watching Eugene more closely from now on. He had not previously considered the possibility that Eugene might be living anything other than a monastic existence within the close, gossip-ridden Simla community. This is an assumption he will need to revise. Things are different in Delhi, he knows: the anonymity of the city, the clubs and hotels where gentlemen with certain interests congregate. The lithe, dark-eyed office boys dreaming of promotion in the coffee houses off Connaught Place. He knows all of this. In principle, the same laws apply in India as they do in England, or America - discretion is essential - but in practice, a life here can be lived very differently: wealth and social standing permitting, of course. A thought strikes him.

“Your father,” says Ralph.

“My father?” Eugene blinks.

“Does he know?”

“The hell? It’s hardly a topic for dinnertime conversation, Ralph.”

“And Madeleine?”

“Oh, she still thinks she can change me,” says Eugene, airily, which makes Ralph snort: how like Madeleine, who probably believes that she could turn the weather with sufficient application of her girlish, guileless charm. Eugene smiles, a peculiar smile that Ralph does not recognise. “God knows she’s tried,” he says.

In that instant, Ralph is presented with a hitherto unimagined possibility so perfectly appalling and yet so perfectly compelling - aligning, as it does, with his own situation, his most fiercely-suppressed, unacknowledged desires  - he finds himself quite unable to contemplate the matter any further. His mood sours swift as milk.

“You should go,” he says.

Ralph dresses more quickly than Eugene, who - infuriatingly - decides to light a cigarette, thus marking the reinstatement of each garment with a number of lengthy inhalations and the occasional volley of violent coughing. In an effort to hurry him along, Ralph picks up his jacket, and pats at it awkwardly, trying to loosen the creases. Eugene’s buttonhole is crushed: one or both of them must have rolled on top of it.

“Look,” Ralph says. There is a tall glass vase on the bureau, filled with an arrangement of summer flowers, resplendent in all their fussy Englishness: hydrangeas, stock, carnations. He pulls a striped carnation from the vase and points it at Eugene, who is sitting on the edge of the bed, buttoning his shirt. “Take this one. It’s almost the same.”

Eugene picks up his cigarette from the ashtray and takes a long drag, exhales. Smoke streams from his pursed lips. He plucks the flower from Ralph’s grasp, twirling the stem between finger and thumb. “How absurd,” he murmurs, and Ralph has no idea whether he is referring to the flower, the situation, or even himself.

***

Later, at lunchtime, Ralph spots Eugene dining at the club with Madeleine. She waves him over. Ralph feels a uneasy sense of rising, low-level panic, but Eugene is polite and distant as ever. The striped carnation in his buttonhole is already wilting. He cuts his food into small pieces, chews and swallows mechanically. When Ralph catches his eye, Eugene gives him a cool, closed-mouthed smile.


End file.
